Accident [WWH Sanitarium, 2018]
Mar 22, 2020 17:19:20 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Mar 22, 2020 17:19:20 GMT -5
LOCATION: Hartland, Arizona
DATE/TIME: March 6, 2018
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
HANK WILLIAMS BLARED FROM THE SPEAKERS as the rusted 1996 Buick sped out of the Hartland Asylum lot. The man behind the wheel didn't bother to turn it down, didn't even know where that control was – he hadn't even bothered with the headlights even though it was well past midnight. He didn't look back. He didn't want to see that big oaf trying to chase after the car he'd just hot-wired. His vision was blurred, and it wasn't just from the Wild Turkey that used to be in the magnum bottle that was rolling around on the passenger side floor. The tears were hot, stinging his eyes as they fell, unchecked, soaking the material beneath them until the irritation on his skin was too much. He took his hands from the wheel, reaching up to loosen the strings of his mask. He knew Enigma would cover for him, would take whatever punishment would be meted out in the wake of his early departure. He wasn't afraid of Jackson. Not after all these years.
"Fuck it all," he snarled, shifting into third, peeling around the corner with a squeal of burnt rubber. He was miles from his apartment, from the place he now called home. He didn't know a goddamn person in this godforsaken city, but right now he didn't care.
The car blasted down the dark road, recklessly. The engine sputtered in protest at the abuse as the gears were roughly shifted. The music was loud, too loud, nearly deafening… at this volume nearly indistinguishable as the cheap speakers rattled and crackled. He leaned forward slightly, his face slick with a sheen of greasy sweat, in spite of the icy blast of air streaming from the vents. Stomping on the accelerator, he barreled forward into the unknown, his expression haunted, eyes bloodshot in his pale face.
The roar of the crowd's laughter echoed in his head as he roughly shifted into top gear, opening the car up all the way, going much too fast for this dark, unknown road. Life wasn't a concern, neither was death. Just escape. The darkness seemed menacing, the indigo sky too close, too star-studded to where it all felt surreal. Maybe he was back in the Therapy Room. Maybe the electrodes were still on his temples. Maybe this wasn't happening at all.
There wasn't another car in sight.
"Maybe I'm the last guy on Earth." He laughed breathlessly, shaking his head. For some reason that was hilarious, and he swerved across the center line, trying to control his sudden amusement. He bit his lip, tasting blood. He shuddered, suddenly chilled, groping for the controls to cut the air conditioning. The needle approached 90, the engine whining, red-lining now. He didn't care. Let the goddamn thing explode. Go one further, let it blow up in a flaming ball of wreckage, lighting up the dimness. At least death would afford silence to the voices that were mocking him now, shades of the past.
He had no sense of where he was headed, just that he had to get there. And still, he could feel the mockery gaining on him, the faster he went, the faster and closer it seemed to be. He could hear the mocking laughter again; feel the breath on his neck, crystallizing the sweat there into clammy ice. His hands were cold, slick on the wheel. The whine of the engine began to sound like a voice, whimpering in fear. It reminded him of the sounds Slave made in the night. Shaking his head, his expression grim, he stomped on the gas pedal again, not letting up.
The pressure on the accelerator increased, the whine intensifying, nearly drowning out the reedy whistle of his labored breathing. In his state of panic, he was nearly hyperventilating, the road swam before him, blurred by tears. Tears of frustration. The tears of a sad drunk. Angrily, he swiped a hand across his eyes, banging his fist on the steering wheel. He would not let it happen again. Not ever.
A sound like an explosion shook the small car, idiot lights coming on in a flurry of red and orange as the hood blew upwards, blown open by the force of the thrown piston. The car swerved, crashed through a fence and tipped into an irrigation ditch. Pyro's face smashed against the windshield – he hadn't bothered to put on his seatbelt.
The sound of the blaring horn shattered the silent night.
There still wasn't a single car in sight.
DATE/TIME: March 6, 2018
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
HANK WILLIAMS BLARED FROM THE SPEAKERS as the rusted 1996 Buick sped out of the Hartland Asylum lot. The man behind the wheel didn't bother to turn it down, didn't even know where that control was – he hadn't even bothered with the headlights even though it was well past midnight. He didn't look back. He didn't want to see that big oaf trying to chase after the car he'd just hot-wired. His vision was blurred, and it wasn't just from the Wild Turkey that used to be in the magnum bottle that was rolling around on the passenger side floor. The tears were hot, stinging his eyes as they fell, unchecked, soaking the material beneath them until the irritation on his skin was too much. He took his hands from the wheel, reaching up to loosen the strings of his mask. He knew Enigma would cover for him, would take whatever punishment would be meted out in the wake of his early departure. He wasn't afraid of Jackson. Not after all these years.
"Fuck it all," he snarled, shifting into third, peeling around the corner with a squeal of burnt rubber. He was miles from his apartment, from the place he now called home. He didn't know a goddamn person in this godforsaken city, but right now he didn't care.
The car blasted down the dark road, recklessly. The engine sputtered in protest at the abuse as the gears were roughly shifted. The music was loud, too loud, nearly deafening… at this volume nearly indistinguishable as the cheap speakers rattled and crackled. He leaned forward slightly, his face slick with a sheen of greasy sweat, in spite of the icy blast of air streaming from the vents. Stomping on the accelerator, he barreled forward into the unknown, his expression haunted, eyes bloodshot in his pale face.
The roar of the crowd's laughter echoed in his head as he roughly shifted into top gear, opening the car up all the way, going much too fast for this dark, unknown road. Life wasn't a concern, neither was death. Just escape. The darkness seemed menacing, the indigo sky too close, too star-studded to where it all felt surreal. Maybe he was back in the Therapy Room. Maybe the electrodes were still on his temples. Maybe this wasn't happening at all.
There wasn't another car in sight.
"Maybe I'm the last guy on Earth." He laughed breathlessly, shaking his head. For some reason that was hilarious, and he swerved across the center line, trying to control his sudden amusement. He bit his lip, tasting blood. He shuddered, suddenly chilled, groping for the controls to cut the air conditioning. The needle approached 90, the engine whining, red-lining now. He didn't care. Let the goddamn thing explode. Go one further, let it blow up in a flaming ball of wreckage, lighting up the dimness. At least death would afford silence to the voices that were mocking him now, shades of the past.
He had no sense of where he was headed, just that he had to get there. And still, he could feel the mockery gaining on him, the faster he went, the faster and closer it seemed to be. He could hear the mocking laughter again; feel the breath on his neck, crystallizing the sweat there into clammy ice. His hands were cold, slick on the wheel. The whine of the engine began to sound like a voice, whimpering in fear. It reminded him of the sounds Slave made in the night. Shaking his head, his expression grim, he stomped on the gas pedal again, not letting up.
The pressure on the accelerator increased, the whine intensifying, nearly drowning out the reedy whistle of his labored breathing. In his state of panic, he was nearly hyperventilating, the road swam before him, blurred by tears. Tears of frustration. The tears of a sad drunk. Angrily, he swiped a hand across his eyes, banging his fist on the steering wheel. He would not let it happen again. Not ever.
A sound like an explosion shook the small car, idiot lights coming on in a flurry of red and orange as the hood blew upwards, blown open by the force of the thrown piston. The car swerved, crashed through a fence and tipped into an irrigation ditch. Pyro's face smashed against the windshield – he hadn't bothered to put on his seatbelt.
The sound of the blaring horn shattered the silent night.
There still wasn't a single car in sight.
